Shunning Hope, Numbing Pain
by Rae Himura
Summary: An episode tag for Dying Changes Everything. Some exploration into House's reaction and Wilson's potential motives. Connection to the next episode. Spoilers. No Slash, for once.


**Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. If it did, House and Wilson would get to play a lot more often.  
****Warnings: No slash for once. Spoilers for Dying Changes Everything and the previews for the next episode.  
****Comments, reviews and critiques are my crack. Hope you enjoy!**

"_We're not friends anymore House. I'm not sure we ever were."_

The floor dropped out of the room, leaving nothing but a black vacuum intent on robbing House of his internal organs. He tried to rally the energy to be angry, to say something snarky, to call Wilson back with an argument. To cry, to hurt, to drown in dramatic angst. To run after him. To say good riddance. Something. But all he could do was stand there as his friend walked out of his life, and think it was about time.

It kept coming back to that. As he limped slowly out of the overly bright hospital into the cool night air. As he climbed onto his motorcycle and broke every speed limit on the way home. As he practically crawled into his waiting apartment and poured a glass of his strongest liquor. He couldn't get over the fact that he had known, always known, that it was only a matter of time before Wilson woke up and walked out. Even someone as enabling as Wilson wouldn't put up with their screwed up friendship forever. And no matter how many layers of games and manipulation and need he created to bind them together, he had always known it was going to unravel.

He fell into a heap on the couch, stretching his injured leg out with a grimace. He popped a Vicodin without a thought, chasing it with a gulp of liquor. The rest of the amber liquid disappeared in a few moments, and barely shaking hands refilled the glass.

He was an idiot for convincing himself it might last. For finally giving in to the hope he so desperately wanted. He wasn't sure at what point he had let it take over. Christmas. Divorce. Tritter. A thousand moments in between. At some point, hope had slipped insidiously into his mind and the infection had spread. He had been terminal until Wilson provided the cure.

"_I'm not sure we ever were."_

The dull numbness began to ebb away as bitterness seeped in. Pain echoed through his skull, a fading reminder of his injury. Apparently risking his life wasn't enough.

Opening up wasn't enough. Caring, for once in his life, wasn't enough. Being vulnerable had gotten him nowhere. He was back on his couch, surrounded by the littered evidence of weeks of recovery, of endless isolation even before that. He was drowning in baggage. At least he could tell Cuddy, "I told you so."

It took someone like Amber to awaken Wilson's sense of self-preservation. Of selfishness. And now he was doubting their entire friendship. Yes, it had been unorthodox. Maybe even broken. But it had always been there, damn it. Wilson was the only person House could honestly call a friend. And now he couldn't convince himself it had been the grief talking when Wilson said he'd been wrong all this time. They had never been friends.

Hell, he might as well be truthful with himself, this late in the game. Wilson was more than just important to House. He was _it_. The only person in House's life that still meant anything, that could still get him to pull back from the edge. Wilson was his conscience, his bridle, his counterbalance. If all of that meant nothing, he had nothing left to keep him from the cliff.

The glass found its way to his mouth again, a gulp of amber liquid burning his throat and numbing from the inside out. His life was about pain. Some days it was about risking it, some days almost chasing it. Most nights, especially tonight, it was about avoiding it. He glanced at the clock. 10:00. Not even an hour since his last dose. With an almost smirk, he downed another Vicodin anyway. Chasing it down with the last of the alcohol, he placed the glass and the pill bottle on the table, settling back into the couch.

His half-glazed eyes slid shut. Good-bye cliff, hello falling.

* * *

The morning sunlight poured in through half-open blinds. A mangled groan echoed through the empty space as the contents of the couch returned from unconsciousness. He looked around in hazy confusion for a moment before he remembered to check for damage. No serious motor impairment. No pile of vomit on the floor. No significant symptoms. Great. He would almost rather not wake up. At least that's how he felt when the pain starting shooting through his leg. It spasmed and clenched, jolts of pain running through his body. He should have learned this lesson by now.

Bottle on the table. He popped a pill and threw the bottle to the other side of the room for good measure. If he wanted more, he'd have to deal with the walk. His head throbbed, a combination of the hangover and the injury. The decision to skip work practically made itself.

Land line still disconnected? Check. Cell phone and pager off? Check. Deadbolt locked, lights off and no sign that anything lived inside his place? Check, check and check. He rolled back over, gathered the cushion into a more comfortable shape, and let his eyes fall shut.

A moment later, they flew open. With a disappointed groan, he managed to sit up. Scrounging around the clutter, he pulled out a pen and an old Chinese menu. The place Wilson loved. In a messy loops, he scribbled out a message: Google Private Detectives.

With a slightly lightened frown, he fell back into the waiting cushions. As his eyes closed, a forceful thought ran through his mind.

_Nothing is ever that simple._


End file.
